


Unspoken

by sospes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Graphic Injury, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Geralt is summoned to the court of Count Enri and called on to fight a monster - and Jaskier, of course, is right in the middle of things.Except monsters can be human, too.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 140
Kudos: 2187
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> As always, heed the tags / warnings!

“The count is looking for you, Witcher.” 

Geralt looks up his bowl of thin stew, all that this ratchety old tavern had to offer. The man standing in front of him is wearing clean, polished armour veined with inlaid patterns in filigree gold, flowers and birds—the polar opposite to Geralt’s own, which is currently scratched and stained with blood and entrails—and there’s an expression of cold disdain unfurled across his face. Geralt knows the type: lordly, arrogant, full of their own self-importance. “Good for him,” he answers shortly, and goes back to his stew. 

“He demands your presence,” the perfumed knight says, head held high. 

“Good to know.”

If it’s possible, the man with his fancy armour draws himself up even taller. “You will come with me, Witcher,” he says, pompous, nasally. “Count Enri requires your services.” 

For a moment, Geralt contemplates telling the prissy knight where exactly Count Enri can stick his services. It’s a tempting prospect, but he left Ciri with Yennefer and came to this shitty town exactly for this reason: to work, to earn some coin, to try to figure out how a child in hiding, a battle-scarred sorceress, and a Witcher can make their way across the war-torn continent to Kaer Morhen without ending up dead along the way. He hums low in his throat, sits back against the wall. “Can Count Enri pay?” he asks. 

A sneer twists the knight’s lips, and he produces a small purse which he drops pointedly in Geralt’s bowl of stew. “More than you’re worth.”

Unperturbed, Geralt fishes the purse out of his meal and pulls it open. Gold coins glint at him from the beefy depths, and for a moment he thinks of Ciri’s boots, torn and worn and more holes than leather. He lets out a sharp breath, tucks the purse into his pocket, and gets to his feet. “Lead on,” he says, quietly pleased with the fact that he’s half a head taller than Sir Up-His-Arse. 

The man in fancy armour sniffs at him, then turns on his heel and leads him away with a clatter of gilded metal. 

Geralt follows him into the night, silent as a cat. 

The Count’s castle is high on a hill overlooking the town Geralt has spent the last week chasing contracts in. Geralt follows the knight on a windy path through the countryside, quietly wary for ambush or trap because, in his experience, if someone with money pays upfront, it usually means that they’re going to to want to take that payment back at some point. They reach the castle without incident, though, and Geralt looks up at the elegant building with a critical eye. It’s beautiful, yes, golden stone, delicate architecture, finely-carved stonework, but it’s not exactly… _practical_. You’d have a job defending this against an attacking army, that’s for sure. 

Sir Talks-A-Lot apparently mistakes his gaze for admiration. “Count Enri is the most powerful man in this part of the continent,” he says, preening, proud. “His influence is vast, only surpassed by his taste and refinement. You would do well to keep your insolence in your head when you meet him, Witcher.”

Geralt cocks his head, smiles his most wolfish smile. “He’s the one who asked for me,” he says, sharp and keen. “He must know what he’s getting.” 

The knight’s cheeks flush and he speeds up. 

There’s music and laughter spilling from the brightly-lit windows, staining the night with the raucous cries of aristocratic drunkards, but, predictably, Geralt isn’t taken to the feasting hall. His favourite gilded knight leaves him in a small, sparsely-appointed room with two soldiers as his guards—Geralt is mildly offended by the implication that they’d even slow him down—and disappears, presumably to fetch his master. Geralt looks around the room for a moment, stone walls, stone floor, a pair of finely-embroidered tapestries on the walls, then sits heavily in one of the solid oaken chairs. 

Geralt frowns, sniffs the air. There’s a smell in this room that he feels like he should recognise, but it’s too faded for him to properly identify. 

He’s not waiting long before the door is thrown open more than a little dramatically and a finely-dressed noble enters. His cheeks are flushed with fine wine and revelry, and his clothes are clearly expensive, silks shot through with gold thread, hands full of gemstone-studded rings. His eyes are the brightest green Geralt has ever seen, almost cat-like, and his hair is a foppishly-oiled blond. He’s a dandy, a princeling, a spoiled aristocrat. 

Geralt rises to his feet. “Count Enri,” he says, rumblingly low. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” the count answers. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” – and as he says it, as he settles himself in a chair and gestures for Geralt to do the same, there’s a flash of something dangerous in his eyes. 

And there’s that smell again, too faint to make out. 

“I hear you require my services,” Geralt says, disquiet coiling in his gut. 

“I do, Witcher, I do,” the count answers, crossing his legs, bouncing one foot in the air. “We have a monster in these parts, up in the hills. Big and ugly, hated by all – I imagine you can sympathise.” His eyes dance at the jibe, and Geralt settles into his chair a little further. He knows how this conversation is going to go. “I can pay,” the Count says. “As I believe Sir Malin has already demonstrated. You can name your price.” 

“What kind of monster?” Geralt asks. 

The count waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t know, big, monstrous,” he says. “You’re the monster expert, you tell me when you’ve killed it. It’s been killing travellers and worrying the townsfolk in the valley – and, well, as their liege lord, I can’t have that, can I?” His eyes are piercing, searching. Geralt gets the impression that he’s being assessed, but not for the usual reasons. It’s unsettling. “You’re not what I expected,” he says, after a long moment. 

Geralt raises his head. “What did you expect?” 

“Something else,” is all the answer the count gives, and then he smiles a viper’s smile, tilts his head. “Will you accept?” 

Every muscle in Geralt’s body is telling him to get the fuck out of here right now. Something is very wrong, spectacularly wrong, because he’s been in the town for a week and hasn’t heard anything about a monster in the hills, not even from the standard town doomsinger who followed him around for a full two days shouting about how he was an evil portent, yadda yadda – which means this is probably a fucked up trap of some description that’s not going to end well for anyone involved. But at the same time, there’s that _smell_. It tickles in the back of his throat, the back of his mind. 

“I’ll do it,” Geralt answers. “But it’ll be expensive, given how little information you’ve given me.” 

The Count shrugs. “So be it,” he says, and gets to his feet. “My men will show you to the beast’s hunting grounds in the morning. Until then, we are feasting tonight, to celebrate my wife’s pregnancy. Stay. Eat, drink, be merry.” That flash of darkness in his eyes again. “I insist.” 

This is such a bad idea. 

“I’d be honoured,” Geralt lies, and inclines his head. 

“Good,” the count says, and smiles a poisonous smile. 

Geralt is lead down from the small, sparse room towards the sounds of shouts and laughter and, by this time of the evening, vomiting. The stink of the rich and their entertainment is almost overwhelming, but he knows that his host is watching him every step of the way so he’s not about to show his discomfort. The count winks at him at the entrance to the feasting hall, says, “Until tomorrow, Geralt of Rivia,” and disappears into the throng. Geralt can’t exactly say he’s sad to see him go – but his soldiers stick around, watching Geralt with flat, unemotional eyes. Geralt is less pleased about this turn of events. 

He turns to the banquet, nose wrinkling. There are three long tables laid out along the hall in addition to high table, the count’s table, and all of them are scattered with the detritus of a feast: plates, cups, picked bones, smears of spilled food. A general smell of wine and spirits clouds the air, and in places the floor is sticky underfoot. A few paces away, an elderly man wearing a large hat and a stained doublet is pulling an unimpressed serving maid into his lap, and on the other side of the table an elderly woman that Geralt is pretty sure is his wife is fast asleep on the table. 

It’s _that_ kind of party. 

Geralt takes a seat as far away from high table as he can, slinking into a corner and doing his best to ignore his escort. He contemplates grabbing one of the half-full jugs of wine and drinking it in one, but that’s probably not a sensible idea when he’s fairly sure that his host has at least a small inclination towards trying to kill him. He sighs, settles in, and folds his arms. At least the music is good. 

Which is when Geralt actually looks at the small troupe of musicians perched on a dais to the right of high table, and feels like he’s been punched in the gut. 

_Fuck._

Jaskier is standing front and centre, lute in hand, dressed in a high-necked purple doublet and matching trousers. He’s singing something about a river and a nymph which is probably grossly inaccurate, hair dishevelled in that particular way it gets after a long performance, hands dancing over the strings, and Geralt hasn’t seen him since the mountain, since the dragon, since the moment Yennefer dumped him and he decided in a fit of madness that the best way to deal with that was to push away the person he probably cares about most in the world. And then the whole situation just gets worse because Jaskier looks at him, level and steady, fully aware, fully alert. He doesn’t blink in surprise, doesn’t fumble a few notes, doesn’t let his voice hitch, he just meets Geralt’s startled gaze, level and steady, and shakes his head ever so slightly. 

There’s something wrong. 

And that’s when Geralt realises it: the smell. That smell he picked up on in that sparse interview room, the smell that wafted in with the count – it’s Jaskier’s smell, distinctive and pure, floral oils and the wood of his lute and the flavour of his sweat. 

Jaskier’s smell is on the count. 

Geralt takes a slow, deep breath. The world is all of a sudden very sharp and clear around him. 

Jaskier holds his gaze a moment longer until he’s seemingly satisfied with whatever he sees, then looks away, back to his performance, back to his drunken, rowdy audience. In that instant, it’s like that moment never happened – but Geralt watches, and assesses, and starts to work it out, because he’s not the only one watching Jaskier. Well, everyone’s watching Jaskier, that’s kind of the point, but not everyone has that joyous, drunken, half-glassy look in their eyes that they should have. It’s the count, of course. He’s careful, he’s not obvious about it, but he’s watching Jaskier with darkness in his eyes. 

_Fuck, Jaskier,_ Geralt thinks. _What have you got yourself into now?_

The festivities go on for a good hour longer, until the guests are either carried out by their servants or just seem to accept their fate and sleep soundly on the hall’s floor. Geralt watches as the count leaves, tossing him a wicked smile as he does, then waits as the musicians pack up, exchanging quiet conversation that he can’t hear from the other end of the hall. He’s watching them, of course, and he sees it when the piper claps Jaskier on the shoulder, sees Jaskier’s almost imperceptible flinch, invisible to anyone who doesn’t know him as well as Geralt does. 

Geralt focuses on his breathing. 

When the hall is empty, Jaskier approaches him. His fingers are lax and easy around the neck of his lute, his footsteps are light, his shoulders are relaxed, and he comes and sits on the bench opposite Geralt, leaning forward across the table, smiling broadly. “Geralt,” he says, warm, welcoming. “Enri said you might be coming. It’s good to see you.” 

_Enri_. He calls the count by his first name. And he’s not launching straight into bitterness and recriminations, not bringing up the fact that the last time they saw each other, Geralt royally fucked everything up. 

Geralt is all of a sudden very aware of his armed escort – armed and _listening._ “Good to see you, too,” he says carefully, because, damnit, he needs to be better at doubletalk right now. 

Jaskier’s forehead is unlined, his hands are spread easy across the table. “How have you been?” he asks. “It’s been, what, ten months? A year?” 

“Something like that,” Geralt says. “I’ve been… good.” He licks his lips, glances around the hall. “You seem to have done well for yourself?” 

Jaskier smiles, broad and beaming, but his eyes are flat. “I have, haven’t I?” he says. “Yes, the count has been very generous. He’s a great patron of the arts, and he’s given me a permanent place here, food and lodging.” He huffs a laugh. “No more bedrolls in the mud and the rain. I’m very spoilt.” 

Geralt can read between the lines. Jaskier can’t leave. “How long have you been here?” he asks. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Six months or so, I think,” he says. “I lose track of the time, sometimes. You know what I’m like.” 

Geralt does. He’s not like this. 

He hums an answer. 

Jaskier shifts a little, leans forward, and as he does so the high neck of his doublet slips, tugs away from his skin. Geralt doesn’t see it for a moment because it’s practically the same colour as the rich, expensive fabric, but then it’s _all_ he can see: a ring of bruises, some fresh, some faded, dug deep into the flesh of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt’s expression must shift because Jaskier quickly sits back, tugs his collar back into place, and his mask of happy calm slips, just a little. _Don’t,_ the panic in his eyes flashes. _Don’t react, Geralt, please._

“Bard.” 

The voice comes from the entrance to the hall. It’s Geralt’s old friend Sir Arsehole again, armour gleaming in the torchlight, and there’s a distinctly unpleasant look in his eyes as he looks at Geralt. “Your presence is required.” 

Geralt doesn’t miss the shiver that runs down Jaskier’s spine. He doesn’t look at Geralt, just gets to his feet, picks up his lute, then glances back, flashes a smile. “Good to see you, Geralt,” he says, mask firmly back in place – and as he hefts his lute, Geralt sees that there are bruises around his wrists, too. “Good luck with everything.” 

Geralt nods, not trusting himself to speak, and watches as Jaskier goes. 

“Witcher,” one of the soldiers says. “Come with us.” 

Yeah, Geralt doesn’t think so. 

He follows his escort into the corridor, and the moment he sees an appropriate hiding place, he grabs the pair of them, smashes their helmeted heads together, and dumps their catatonic, probably brain-damaged bodies in a small room at the end of a dead-end corridor. It’s the middle of the night by now so the clattering and banging doesn’t attract any notice, but he keeps still and silent for a little while anyway, waiting, listening. 

No one comes. 

Geralt checks his swords, cracks his neck, and goes to find Jaskier. 

He makes his way back to the feasting hall without difficulty, footsteps nearly silent on the stone flags. He follows the direction that he saw Jaskier go in, follows his scent, and tries not to let rage twist his heart. Bruises at Jaskier’s wrists, at his throat. How he flinches when he’s touched. And his smell on the count. 

There’s a bitter realisation in the back of Geralt’s throat that this is his fault. If he hadn’t acted like such a fucking idiot, if he hadn’t sent Jaskier away, if he hadn’t _run_ from his fucking _feelings_ because, well, Yennefer hurt him so what was the likelihood that Jaskier wasn’t going to hurt him, too? – if, if, if. 

But he did. And now he has to make it right. 

Geralt finds his way to an archway with guards on the door, heavily armed and heavily armoured, pikes in their hands and swords at their waists. For a moment Geralt considers just smashing through them – but then he remembers Jaskier shaking his head, just a little, just barely. Jaskier is many things, reckless and irreverent, flighty and flirty, but he’s not an idiot. There are things going on here that Geralt doesn’t understand, and if Jaskier says wait, he’ll wait. 

But he can hear Jaskier’s voice behind that door. 

Geralt grits his teeth and backs away. He circles the hall for a while, looking for another way in, and eventually he finds one: a door, tucked behind a wall hanging, that leads to a narrow spiral staircase, arching up towards a tiny balcony overlooking the hall. He moves slowly, carefully, not making a sound, and when he gets to the balcony, he hangs back, doesn’t let himself be seen. 

Jaskier stands in a small, intimate hall, walls hung with tapestries, floor strewn with rugs, chairs artfully arranged across the floor. There’s a fire burning in the hearth, dozens of candles lit around the walls, and Geralt vaguely knows that, by many standards, this would be classed as romantic. And there Jaskier is, standing in the middle of the room with his doublet gone, just in his undershirt, the bruises around his neck dark and heavy in the dim light. He’s not alone, of course he’s not alone, because the fucking count is there, too, one hand on Jaskier’s waist, the other stroking down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice soft, tender. “That must have been hard for you.” 

Jaskier smiles, and all of a sudden Geralt realises that his hands are on the Count’s hips, thumbs moving in small circles. “It’s okay, Enri,” he says, husky, soft. “I know what you’re trying to do.” 

The count’s fingers brush gently across Jaskier’s lips, his thumb pausing on his bottom lip. Jaskier opens his mouth almost _obediently_ , and something twists Geralt’s stomach at the sight. “He hurt you,” the count says, and Geralt abruptly realises that, fuck, they’re talking about him. “I know it must be difficult to have him here, but I think it’s good for you. To face him. To get closure.”

Jaskier presses a soft kiss to the pad of the count’s thumb. “What will you do with him?” he asks. 

The count pauses, and Geralt can almost feel the atmosphere cooling. “Why?” he asks, that coldness seeping into his voice. “Do you care?” And his fingers leave Jaskier’s face, his lips, drift down and settle gently around his throat. “You told me how he spoke to you, Jaskier, what he _said_. The pain he caused you. And now you’re _worried_ about him?” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m not worried about him,” he says, his voice easy, reassuring. “I know that whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it for my benefit. You’re doing it to protect me.” 

The hand around his throat relaxes, just a little. “Good,” the count says. “Remember, little bird, _I_ would never treat you like that. _I_ would never break your tender heart.” His thumb rubs across Jaskier’s jawline, drops down to the bruises. “I only hurt you when you hurt me.” 

“I know, Enri,” Jaskier says, almost a whisper. 

“Tell me,” the count says, with a tenderness in his voice that makes Geralt feel sick. “Tell me, Jaskier.” 

“I love you,” Jaskier says, so open, so honest, so full of truth. “Only you.” 

“And the Witcher?” the count says, his hand squeezing tighter, fingertips digging in hard. “Your _Geralt_? Do you still love him?”

_Still?_

Geralt must shift at that, flinch at that, because even though there’s a hand around Jaskier’s throat, his eyes flick towards the shadowy balcony. Not for long, not for long at all, but Geralt abruptly knows that Jaskier knows he’s here, has maybe known he’s here all along. 

“No,” Jaskier says, staring at the man with his hand around his throat, love beaming bright in his eyes. “No, Enri, only you.”

But the count’s hand doesn’t stop, doesn’t relax, doesn’t loosen. His finger and thumb are on either side of Jaskier’s windpipe and he pinches, tighter, ever tighter, his other hand leaving Jaskier’s hip to fasten in his hair, to pull his head back, exposing his battered throat even more. And Jaskier _doesn’t fight_. He just lets him, mouth wide open, gasping for air, hands resting against the count’s chest but not pushing him away, not scratching and hitting, just laying there like this is okay, like this is fine. 

Like this has happened before. 

“Yes,” the count says, pulling Jaskier’s lips to his, kissing him violently even as he still chokes for the air he’s being denied. “Remember that, little bird. _Only me._ ” 

And then he lets him go. 

Geralt watches, fist clenched tight against his thigh, as Jaskier stumbles, gasps for air, and then crashes to his knees. For a long moment there’s nothing but the sound of his hoarse, cracked breathing, rasping and tattered and choked, but then Jaskier sits back on his heels, looks up, eyes blown wide, hands cradling his throat, and says, scattered, faint, “Only you.” 

Geralt is vaguely aware that his fingernails have bit so hard into his palms they’ve drawn blood. 

The count reaches down, brushes his fingertips through Jaskier’s hair, across his spit-flecked lips. “I should fuck your mouth right now, like this,” he says, almost nonchalant, and bile rises in Geralt’s throat, “but it’s late, and I want to see to Talia and my child.” He slaps Jaskier’s cheek, just hard enough that his hand leaves a red mark. “Take yourself back to your chambers, little bird. I’ll deal with the Witcher in the morning.” 

Jaskier’s eyes are shining in the candlelight. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Get some sleep,” the count says, stepping away, out of the door, _leaving._

Just for a second, Jaskier’s eyes flick up to the balcony that Geralt is fucking _hiding_ on. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound, just looks away, clambers to his feet, collects his doublet and his lute, and goes. 

On silent feet, Geralt follows. 

Jaskier doesn’t have a guard, doesn’t have an escort, doesn’t have a man in armour trailing him through that halls – and that kind of makes it worse. There’s no assumption that he’ll try to make a run for it, that he’ll try to escape. He’s caught. He’s trapped, he’s bound, he’s _caged_. 

Geralt falls into step with him in the castle’s corridors, anger flaring deep in his gut. “Jaskier,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not here,” he says, and his ruined throat makes it almost too quiet for even Geralt to hear. 

Jaskier has a room, small, out of the way, tucked into a quiet corner of the castle with a window that overlooks the valley below. The door is thick and heavy – but, Geralt notices with a twist, it has no lock. Inside, the room is somewhere between determinedly neutral and full of Jaskier’s character: there’s clothes strewn across chair backs and the end of the narrow bed, vials and jars scattered across a small table, Jaskier’s lyric notebook tossed on the pillow, a pair of boots neglected in one corner. Jaskier sets his lute down on its case, closes the door shut behind them. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, as low as he can keep his voice given the rage that’s boiling through him. “What the fuck is going on?” 

Jaskier’s hand is at his throat, protective, pained. “Hey, Geralt,” he says, tired, hoarse. “Long time no see.” 

“Jaskier, I just had to watch that bastard choke you,” Geralt growls, “and then threaten to rape you.” 

“Technically, he only threatened to shove his cock down my throat,” Jaskier points out, reaching for a bottle of something clear and thick. “Which is definitely the least traumatic of the various things he’s done to me recently.” 

Geralt steps closer, hands flexing and useless at his sides. “Jaskier,” he says, softer. 

Jaskier takes a mouthful of whatever’s in the bottle, then replaces it, picks up a tiny pot of salve, rubs some into the skin of his neck. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, eventually, “but it makes things complicated.” He sighs, puts the pot down. “You know he’s going to try to kill you, right?”

“Not if I kill him first,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier laughs, a quiet, muted sound, then reaches out, pats his hand against Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” he says, tired, exhausted. “You and your straightforward problem-solving.”

Carefully, gently, Geralt catches Jaskier’s wrist, rolls back the sleeve of his undershirt, studies the bruises around his wrist – and, now that he’s close enough to see, around his forearms, tripping further up his arms, digging into the crook of his elbows. “These were made by fingers,” he says. “And by rope.”

Jaskier doesn’t pull his hand away. “It took me a while to figure out how to stay alive in here,” he says. “I wasn’t always so… amenable.” 

“What happened?” 

Jaskier sighs, steps closer. His hand flattens to Geralt’s chest, fingertips pushing into the fabric of his shirt. “I came to perform here,” he says. “And I got… stuck.” 

“ _Stuck_ ,” Geralt says flatly. 

A muscle jumps in Jaskier’s jaw. “The countess,” he says slowly. “Enri’s wife. I know her. We grew up together, she’s a friend. I was passing through the town in the valley and I heard she was up here. Got myself an invite, came to see her. Her husband found out I was a bard, and he asked me to perform. Couldn’t really say no, given that they were hosting me and, you know, there’s a war on, so I did.” His lips twist. “It all sort of started going wrong at that point,” he says softly. 

Geralt’s heart is thudding human-fast in his chest. “We’re leaving,” he says. “Now.” 

Jaskier snatches his hand away. “No, we’re not,” he says, just as angry, just as fierce. 

“ _Jaskier_.” 

“Talia,” Jaskier spits. “The countess, my friend. She was the one who used to take these beatings, Geralt. She was the one he used to choke and beat and rape. And now she’s _pregnant_.” His eyes are wild. “I’m not about to abandon her to him, not now, not _ever_.” He pauses, takes a breath, smoothes his hands down the front of his shirt. “Besides,” he says, slipping back into that calm, that terrifying, placid calm that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. “Give it a few days, and it’ll all be over, anyway.” 

Geralt cocks his head. “Oh?” 

Jaskier’s eyes are bright. “I’m not useless,” he says, a little sharper than Geralt expects. “I wasn’t about to just… sit around and wait for a rescue.” His chin tilts higher, exposing the bruises on his neck, dark and bitter against his pale flesh. “Figured I may as well put some of those shit-shovelling skills to good use.” 

“Jaskier—”

“No, sorry, that was unfair.” Jaskier sighs, steps closer. He doesn’t touch Geralt, this time, and Geralt feels that absence like an ache in his heart. “It’s good to see you, Geralt,” Jaskier says again, firmly. “I mean that. And I know you were hurting the last time we met, I get it. Yennefer, and all that. And you’re probably sorry for everything you said—or maybe you’re not, I don’t know—but I’m figuring from how you’re acting right now that you’re probably not _that_ keen to let me shovel shit all over myself. Which I appreciate.” He studies Geralt for a moment, then steps back, steps away again. “But I’ve been making plans, and I can’t leave now.” 

Geralt knows Jaskier’s stubbornness well enough by now to know that he’s not going to change his mind. He grits his teeth. “What plans?” he asks. 

Jaskier’s expression is closed. “Tomasz,” he says, after a long moment. “Talia’s brother. I got a message to him, and he’s coming with a troop of their family’s guards.” 

“To get the countess out?” 

“And me, too,” Jaskier confirms, nodding. “There’s a whole escape plan thing going on. I planned a lot of it, so I’m sure it’s not as streamlined as it could be but it’ll work.”

“When?” 

“Two days time,” Jaskier says wryly. “Which is why you being here, while very much appreciated, is… complicated.” 

Geralt hums. “My presence puts the count on edge,” he says. “You don’t want him on edge. You want him complacent.” 

“Ideally,” Jaskier agrees, rubbing absently at his throat. “I can work on him tomorrow night once you’re gone, calm him down.” 

Geralt bristles. “You expect me to just _leave_?” he asks, dangerous, low. “To leave you here alone?” His gut is tight. “And what exactly does _calm him down_ mean?” 

“I don’t think you want to know the answer to that question,” Jaskier says flatly. 

“If I’m going to leave you,” Geralt says, “then I want to know what I’m leaving you _to_.” 

The silence hangs between them for a long second. 

“I’ve had to do things here,” Jaskier says eventually, eyes bright, bruises sparking in the candlelight, “that I’m not proud of. You saw some of that before, and you can probably guess at a lot of the rest of it. So yes, Geralt, you’re going to leave me here, and then I’m going to go and let Enri do whatever the fuck he wants to me so that I can get Talia out of here. And it won’t be pleasant, and I’ll probably have some fun new scenarios to add to my nightmares.” His lips twist. “He has a… creative imagination. But that’s what’s going to happen.” 

Geralt breathes in, nostrils flaring, fury pounding through his veins. “Let me help,” he says tightly. “Jaskier, let me help you.” 

“Enri has a small army here, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “More than you can handle by yourself – which is why we need Tomasz. So if you want to help, go find him. Help him. Be there when we get out, ready to get us the fuck out of here as fast as you can.” He looks up at Geralt, eyes so bright, so blue, so sharp. “I need you to go, Geralt,” he says. “Gods, I don’t _want_ you to go, but I _need_ you to. And you need to go _now_. The castle will be quiet this time of night, so you should be able to get out without much difficulty.” 

Geralt doesn’t move. He knows Jaskier is right, on some level, knows that he is much more involved in this situation than he is, much more aware of its subtleties and its nuances, but _fuck_ , he can’t stop staring at the bruises around Jaskier’s throat. “The count,” he says, after a long moment. Jaskier’s eyes are intent on him. “In the hall, with you. He asked you if you still love me.” 

Jaskier’s jaw tightens, then relaxes. “He did, didn’t he?” he says softly, reflexively. He sighs. “Well, we both knew it, didn’t we? And it came up pretty early on, with Enri.” There’s a brittleness in his voice that hurts Geralt’s gut. “Before the choking and the violence, he was actually fairly charming. Got me drunk one night, pried the whole story out of me. How I met you, travelled with you. How you, you know, dumped me. I might have got pretty emotional. I’m not entirely sure because he got me _really_ drunk, but I think there were ugly tears.” His lips twitch in a not-quite smile. “I’m sorry I told him,” he says, quieter. “That’s what involved you. That’s why you’re here. More shit-shovelling, I guess.” 

“I didn’t know,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier freezes. “Yes, you did,” he says, flat, slow. “You definitely did.” 

“No,” Geralt says. “I definitely didn’t.” 

Jaskier’s expression is tight, unbelieving. “Geralt, I _threw_ myself at you,” he says. “I followed you around the continent for, what, two decades? I literally sang your praises every day.” 

Geralt shrugs, uncomfortable, and doesn’t know what to say. 

Jaskier stares at him. “Right,” he says eventually, drawn out, incredulous. “We’re going to put a pin in this conversation and come back to it later, after I get out of here and don’t have to worry about whether or not I’m going to make it through tonight without getting forcibly bent over a table in Enri’s chambers. But you have to go, Geralt. Now. There are fewest guards at the eastern gate – that’s your best option.” He lets out a breath, and Geralt’s not the best at reading people but he can see as Jaskier takes all the joy and exuberance and delight that should be flooding his face with light, he takes it all and tamps it down, pushes it down deep, so deep. “Tomasz should be approaching from the south, following the river,” Jaskier says. “When you find him, tell him that…” He pauses, huffs a laugh. “Tell him Dandelion sent you.” He shrugs. “It’s a childhood nickname. He’ll know you’re with me.” He flushes. “Except, you know, not like that.”

Geralt closes the space between them in a single step, takes Jaskier’s face between his hands, slow enough that he can pull away, careful enough that Jaskier can stop him if he wants to, and kisses him. 

Jaskier makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and kisses him back. Not for long, though, not nearly for long enough, because Jaskier pulls back, breaks the kiss, looks at Geralt with eyes that are bright with tears. “Go, Geralt,” he says, kisses him again. “Go. Find Tomasz.” 

Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s, just for a moment. “Two days,” he says. 

“Two days,” Jaskier breathes. 

Geralt kisses him again, slides his hands into Jaskier’s hair, breathes him in, and he wants to say something reassuring, something supportive, something that accurately conveys how he’s feeling right now, aching, fearful, protective – but he’s not good with words. 

Jaskier presses a hand into his chest, pushes him away. “ _Go_ ,” he says.

Geralt goes. He looks back as he closes the door behind him, as he leaves, and there Jaskier is, standing in the middle of his room, his prison, his cage, neck and wrists purple with bruises, lips red, hair ruffled, standing there alone, alone, alone. 

Geralt gets the fuck out of the count’s castle, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. 

In the light of day, he keeps going, keeps putting distance between him and the castle, goes to the tavern where he stabled Roach and spurs her to a gallop before the dawn has even finished breaking. The town fades into a river valley and he tracks the river south, teeth gritted, face like thunder, because he _left_ him, he left _Jaskier_ , he should have told him no, told him to shut up, knocked him out and carried him out of there, old friends be damned. He stops in the middle of the path, Roach unsettled at the hesitation, and for a long, long moment he considers turning around, going back, storming up to that place’s doors like the butcher he is, slaughtering anyone who gets in his way – but he can’t. He knows he can’t. 

Jaskier asked for his help, and this is what he asked him to do. 

It takes him half a day’s ride to find Tomasz. The man Jaskier has entrusted his fate to comes with a guard of thirty men, hardened soldiers all of them, comfortable with their weapons and distrusting of the Witcher who rides up to their commander with barely a word. Tomasz himself is tall and handsome, square-jawed and golden-haired, riding a palomino stallion whose mane is braided with exacting precision, and he signals to his men with a flick of his fingers. “Let him through,” he says. “I think I know what this is about.” 

Geralt forgets, sometimes, that thanks to Jaskier he’s sort of famous. 

He guides Roach alongside the stallion, who noses at her inquisitively until she bites at him and he whinnies quietly. Tomasz quells the outburst with a quick snap of the reins, then turns in his saddle to face Geralt, offers him a smile. “Geralt of Rivia,” he says, carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the honour?” 

Geralt’s jaw is sore from gritting his teeth. “Dandelion sent me,” he says. “To help.” 

Tomasz’ expression softens. “I thought he might have done,” he says, nudging his stallion ahead of the press of his men. Geralt follows, Roach avoiding the other horse’s attentions with a snort. “I’ve known Julian a long time,” Tomasz says when they have some modicum of privacy. “And I know that he’s travelled with you extensively. His communication with me has been of necessity brief, but I wondered if he might manage to recruit you into this.” His eyes flash. “I’m glad you agreed to help. I will not leave my sister in that place any longer than I have to, not if even a handful of the rumours are true.” 

Geralt thinks of Jaskier’s throat, bruised, squeezed. “No offence,” he says, low and harsh, “but I’m not doing this for your sister.” 

Tomasz looks at him keenly, then lapses into a broad smile. “Of course,” he says, nodding. “I wondered that, too.” 

Geralt stiffens. “What?” 

“The songs,” Tomasz says, the sun dancing dappled in his hair. “Julian’s songs, the ones he wrote about you. They made their way around the continent, you must know that. We heard them, in Lettenhoove. And I know Julian well enough to know what he sings without actually saying.” 

It seems like everyone knows except Geralt, and that bites at something inside him. If he’d known, would all of this have been different? If Jaskier had just _told him_ in straightforward, non-metaphorical words, would he have never ended up with those bruises round his throat? Or if Geralt had paid more attention to the things he _didn’t_ say? 

Tomasz doesn’t seem to notice the turmoil inside his head. “We will move tomorrow evening,” he says. “There will be a feast at the castle to celebrate the count’s nameday, and we will march on the front gates under the colours of one of his sworn knights, Sir Pasdon. Pasdon is currently away questing in Redania, but Julian tells me that the count has doubted his loyalty for a while.”

“You’re going to attack the castle with thirty men?” Geralt asks, eyebrow raised. 

“We’re going to attack the castle with twenty-five men,” Tomasz answers, a sparkle in his eye that just for a second reminds Geralt of Jaskier. “The other five will approach by a secondary route, to meet Talia and Julian as they escape.”

“So the attack is a diversion,” Geralt supplies. 

Tomasz nods. “It will draw the attention of the guards inside the castle away from those they are intended to guard,” he says. “Unwatched, there will be an opportunity for our friends to slip away. And I would be honoured, Geralt of Rivia, if you would fight alongside me and my men in this coming battle.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You need to distract the count. If he sees me, he won’t be distracted – he’ll know why I’m there.” His jaw clenches. “I won’t risk Jaskier’s safety like that.” 

Understanding is dawning in Tomasz’ eyes. “You were there, weren’t you?” he asks. “In the count’s castle. You _saw_ them.”

“I didn’t see your sister,” Geralt says, “but I saw Jaskier. I saw what has been done to him.” Bruises in the shape of fingers, branded deep in the flesh of his arm. He breathes, tight and angry. “He’s been protecting your sister. Taking the pain that was meant for her.” 

Tomasz’ expression tightens, hard as granite. “They were close, as children,” he says, after a long moment. “If Julian had taken a different path in life, if he had _remained_ Julian, I think they would have been betrothed.” There’s an unexpected twist in Geralt’s gut at that, painful, sharp. “But he didn’t,” Tomasz says, studying Geralt with watchful eyes as cornflower blue as Jaskier’s. “He changed himself. And he’s now – Jaskier, wasn’t it? I’ll remember that.” 

Geralt nods, and doesn’t know what to say. 

Tomasz watches him a moment longer. “I’m glad,” he says, eventually. “I’m glad he has you.” 

Geralt looks down at Roach’s mane. Tomasz’ stallion is still flicking his tail against her flanks occasionally, still nosing against her neck when his rider isn’t looking, but Roach seems to be tolerating the touches, now. “Tomorrow,” Geralt says.

“Tomorrow,” Tomasz agrees. 

They ride in silence, after that. 

The rest of the day and the night that follows are spent in preparation. Geralt keeps to himself, mostly, watching Tomasz and his men, their drills, their precision, the easy camaraderie they share that reminds him of his own brothers in arms, the men he’ll find when he brings Ciri to Kaer Morhen. The comparison is encouraging, because he might not trust Jaskier’s safety to anyone but himself, but these men are as close to reliable as he’s going to get. 

They camp several miles away from the count’s castle, lighting no fires and keeping quiet in the still night. They can’t be seen, can’t be tracked down, not yet, not yet, and so Geralt lies in the darkness, staring up at the stars, and doesn’t think about what Jaskier is doing right now, what he’s sacrificing to calm that bastard’s urges, what he’s letting him do. Bruises, around his throat, his wrists, his elbows. 

Geralt lets out a tight breath, and closes his eyes. 

The next day, the air is thick with anticipation. Geralt busies himself with Roach, brushing her down, combing tangles out of her mane, picking burrs out of her coat, and she presses her nose reassuring against his chest, warm and solid. “I know,” he says, running his fingers down her nose. “I trust him.” 

She wickers, and rubs her forehead against his shoulder. 

Dusk comes too slowly for Geralt’s liking. 

Tomasz splits his force, as promised, and Geralt finds himself tracking on foot through the moorland on a circuitous route with five men almost as silent and wary as he is. Their nominal leader is man named Artaz, laconic and cool-headed, and for now Geralt is content to follow. For now, and he’s pretty sure that Artaz is well aware of that caveat. 

They lie in the heather, within sight of the count’s castle, and wait. 

The sun sets, slow and gradual, and Geralt feels his eyes accustom to the darkness with a growing sense of unease. He can hear the faint sounds of the count’s celebrations, the braying of drunken laughter, the piping music, the occasional roar of roasts and well-wishes – and throughout all of it he’s imagining Jaskier, front and centre on that stage, playing to his audience with all his talent, all his skill, all his charm, and then playing another audience, a private audience, on his knees for Count fucking Enri, love and devotion blazing in his eyes. There’s something curling in his gut, something angry and bitter and protective. 

The night deepens, and the festivities keep going. 

A few metres away across the heather, Geralt hears Artaz say, “The attack is beginning.” – and he’s right, it is, the sound of hooves in the still air, the cry of a horn. 

Geralt breathes, and breathes, and breathes. 

The sounds of celebration slide into the clamour of battle, of confrontation, of the spilling of blood and the taking of lives. Geralt feels the men around him shifting, feels their desire to be in the thick of it, to be fighting alongside their friends – but they’re professionals. They know what they need to do, and they’re here to do it. 

“There,” Artaz whispers. “Leon, light the lantern.” 

A flame gutters, and Geralt shields his eyes against it, seeks what Artaz saw in the darkness – and there it is, movement, a horse galloping across the moors towards them, a _lone_ horse, but then the bitter taste of fear fades because that one horse has two riders, huddled low on its back. The men around Geralt move, low and careful, melting into the landscape, but the lantern is there, pouring out light, and Geralt sees the riders turn towards that spot of light in the darkness. 

His heart beats Witcher-slow in his chest. 

“My lady,” Artaz says, catching the horse’s reins and holding it still, smoothing his hand down its nose. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” He offers the woman his hand, and she accepts, sliding down to the ground. Her hair is as golden as her brother’s, and, when she turns towards the light, Geralt sees that her eyes are that same bright, blazing blue – but then he’s looking to the other rider, the man with slim shoulders and dark hair, the man who’s jumping down to the ground, expensive boots crashing into the mud, cloak lined in red and trimmed with fur. 

It’s not Jaskier. 

Geralt feels his heart seize in his chest. He pushes forward, pushes to the woman that he’s saved and the man who _isn’t Jaskier_. “Where is he?” he snaps, interrupting whatever comfort Artaz is giving his lady, ignoring the tenderness in how he holds her hands, the care in his expression. “Where the _fuck_ is Jaskier?” 

Talia turns to face him, lips tired, eyes wild. She’s the mirror image of her brother, the line of the cheekbones, the tilt of the nose. “You’re his Witcher,” she says, and Geralt’s throat twists, contracts. She just stares at him for a second, lit by a single, guttering lantern on the moorland, and then she steps towards him, somewhere between grief and anger. “You were _seen_ , Geralt of Rivia,” she spits. “Leaving his chambers, they saw you. Enri’s spies. And then they _took_ him.”

Geralt’s chest is heaving. “Is he dead?” 

“No,” Talia says immediately. “No, but that would be better. Enri took me to him in the dungeons, paraded him in front of me – beaten, chained, _suffering_. He is _punishing_ him, Witcher. Because of _you_.” She gasps in a breath, rough and raw. “Because of _me_ ,” she whispers, reaching out, gripping Geralt’s forearm without any of the usual fear that he inspires. “He’s there because of me, but there was nothing I could do, nothing I could do to get him out. So _I_ had to get out. Pyotr helped me. But Jaskier is still there.” – and then her hand squeezes tighter, tighter, and she hisses, “Save him, Geralt of Rivia. _Save him_.”

Like Geralt could do anything else. 

He grabs the horse’s reins, swinging himself into the saddle and turning its nose back towards the castle in half a heartbeat. Artaz makes a noise of protest, steps forward. “This isn’t part of our orders,” he says tightly. “Lord Tomasz was very clear—”

“I speak for Lord Tomasz,” Talia says, strident and sharp. “Go, Witcher.”

“My lady—”

“I shared a womb with Tomasz,” Talia snaps. “You will obey my orders as if they came from him.” – and all of a sudden Geralt thinks he might understand why Jaskier would be willing to give up so much for this woman. Talia slaps the horse’s flank, says, “Bring him back to me. Go, Geralt, before there’s no more time.” 

Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice. 

The horse isn’t as quick as Roach, isn’t as solid, but it’s sure-footed and it carries him over the uneven moorland with an ease that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. The skirmish—the distraction—is still raging on in front of the castle’s main gate, and for that Geralt is silently thankful: this isn’t a place that’s used to being fortified, to being defended, so the guards are more than remiss in their duties. A postern gate is wholly unguarded, and he slips inside, leaving the horse tethered in a shadowed alcove. He’s no fool, and he knows enough about the count and his predilections— _beaten, chained, suffering_ —to know that Jaskier isn’t going to be in much of a state to be doing much walking. They’ll need the horse to get out of here. 

Anger is bitter and tight in Geralt’s gut. 

The castle’s halls stink of fear, acrid in his nostrils. It would set him on edge if he weren’t so used to hunting with that reek in his head – because that’s what he’s doing, really, he’s hunting. For Jaskier, yes, but not just for him. For the man who did this to him. 

A young guard, alarm bright in his eyes, rounds a corner and practically slams into Geralt’s chest. He freezes but Geralt doesn’t, grabbing him by the throat, sword in hand – and he knows how he looks right now, like the monster, like the Witcher, but he couldn’t give less of a shit. “Take me to the bard,” he says, and when the guard opens his mouth he shakes him, speaks over him: “Lie to me and I’ll know.” 

The guard squeaks something unintelligible, and nods. 

Geralt expects the guard to take him down, down to the dungeons, down to the cellars, to some pit of nightmare and despair where the count throws those who displease him – but that’s not where they go. The guard—little more than a boy, really—leads him up a winding staircase, uncarpeted, stone floor rough and uneven under their feet, and Geralt has half a mind to stop him, to threaten him again, to demand to know what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at, but there’s an innocence in the lad’s scent that tells him he’s doing what he’s told. He’s a boy, and he’s scared. 

Briefly, Geralt thinks of Ciri. 

“Here,” the boy-guard says, coming to the top of the stairs. They must be high in one of the castle’s towers by now, but the walls are windowless so it’s hard to tell exactly where they are. There’s a door in front of them, though, heavy wood, solid lock, and Geralt knows in his bones that this is where he needs to be. He steps forward, assessing the lock, the hinges, the doorframe – and takes his eye off the boy, who slips out of his grasp and clatters away down the stairs.

Geralt winces. Better move fast. 

The door is locked, of course, but the hinges are just that, hinges, straightforward and simple. Geralt puts his shoulder against the door, gives it an experimental shove – and feels a little give. He huffs out a breath, braces himself, then drives a firm kick into the door’s hinges. It gives way a little, and he kicks again, straining with the effort. 

The door crashes open, and Geralt thunders forward. 

Jaskier looks up from where he hangs chained against the wall, leather collar strapped around his throat, leather cuffs around his wrists. There’s a gag stretched painfully tight between his lips, drawing his lips back in a red-scratched grimace, and when he sees it’s Geralt, sees it’s not the count, relief floods across his face. He makes a muffled noise, then waits as Geralt crosses the room, yanks the gag out of his mouth. “What took you so long?” he rasps, sore and abused and Geralt doesn’t want to think about why he sounds like that. 

“You were the one who said two days,” Geralt answers, unbuckling the collar at his throat, trying not to touch the fresh bruises, the chafed patches, the cuts that look like they were left by expensive rings. “Are you okay?” 

“Pretty far from it,” Jaskier answers, flat and honest. “But nothing that a good bath and getting the fuck out of here wouldn’t fix.” 

Geralt nods, and frees his wrists. Jaskier promptly collapses away from the wall, uncontrolled and lax, and Geralt has to scramble to catch him. “Sorry,” Jaskier says, mouth somewhere around Geralt’s ribcage. “I’m pretty sure he dosed me with something. I can’t really control my legs?” 

Geralt grunts, hoists Jaskier so that he’s hanging from his shoulder. “Injuries?” he asks, short and to the point because they _really_ need to go but also he’s not going to get far if Jaskier’s insides are leaking onto his outside. 

“Mostly bruises,” Jaskier answers, sounding surprisingly rational given his current situation. “Enri likes to do most of the damage with his own hands, so it was mostly choking, punching, that kind of thing. Took a few boots to the ribs at one point, and I have this pain in my chest when I breathe so I have a faint suspicion that some of them might be broken. But we can deal with that when we’re out of here, right?” 

Geralt hums agreement, and half-carries Jaskier out of there. 

“Talia,” Jaskier says, as they navigate the stairs with difficulty. His voice is tight and quiet, and Geralt understands the question without him having to ask. 

“She’s out,” he says. “She’s with her brother’s men.” 

Jaskier lets out a long breath. “Good,” he says. “That’s… good.” – and then he hisses, bites back a cry of pain, presses his hands to his chest. “Fuck, Geralt.”

Geralt ignores him, quickens their pace. 

He remembers the path he took through the corridors, winding and circuitous, and he retraces his steps even as Jaskier swears and curses with increasing regularity at his side. He’s heavy in Geralt’s grasp, his breathing thick and wet, legs useless, head thudding against Geralt’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he hisses again. “Geralt, I can’t, we have to stop, _oh_.” 

Geralt doesn’t stop. 

Jaskier stifles a moan, twisting in Geralt’s grasp, and his nails dig into Geralt’s arm. Worry is threading deep into Geralt’s gut, now, because this is too much pain, too much hurt for the injuries that Jaskier described. There’s something more, something worse, but there’s nothing he can do to figure out what just yet. They need to get out of there, and then they can fix this – because they _will_ fix this, that’s the only acceptable outcome. 

“Witcher.” 

Geralt’s heart drops. At his side, Jaskier makes a strangled noise of pain that’s got nothing to do with the beating. 

The count stands between them and their way out of here, dressed to the nines in all the finery of the aristocracy, eyes blazing with fury. There are guards at his back, Sir Arsehole, the boy that Geralt let slip away, three more grim-faced toadies, and Geralt grits his teeth, draws his sword with the arm that’s not wrapped around Jaskier. “Get out of the way,” he says, relying on the myth of the Witcher, the fear he knows he inspires, hoping that they’re not going to challenge that fear because he’s not sure how easy it’ll be fighting five men with Jaskier in this state. Because like hell is he going to let Jaskier go. 

“I was angry, when I found out that you were gone,” the count says, calm and smooth and unruffled. “Even more so when I discovered that my lovely little bird had seen you, and let you go. I thought he knew better than that – but, well, I’ve given him that lesson again since we last met. Haven’t I?” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer, but Geralt can smell the fear that’s seeping through his pores. 

“And now,” the count says, danger creeping into his honey-sweet voice, “you’re trying to take him away from me.” He tuts. “I’m afraid I can’t have that. You see, he’s my property, Witcher. And I know that he was yours once, yours to play with as you please, but you cast him off and now he’s _mine_.” He shrugs, hands wide, welcoming. “I’m sure you’re a reasonable man. I can compensate you with money, if you like, or whores, or patronage. But I’m afraid that you lost your rights to my bard a long time ago.” 

Geralt has feelings about _my bard_ , feelings that he doesn’t know how to express without hitting things, but he’s saved from having to wrestle with words by—

“Oh, _fuck off_ , Enri!” There’s anger and pain in Jaskier’s voice and he clutches at Geralt as he spits the words out, all his eloquence reduced to pure bile. He’s shaking, Geralt realises, but he knows better than to interrupt right now. “I’m not _yours_ , you abusive sack of shit, and I’m not _Geralt’s_ , either. I’m a fucking _person_ , and I get that that’s maybe something that’s difficult for you to understand because you’re a fucking _dick_ but I am not your property and I never fucking will be, no matter how many times you slap me around.” 

The count just stares at him, silent and more than a little bit shocked. 

“Let’s fucking go, Geralt,” Jaskier says, body thrumming with tension, and Geralt’s not exactly sure how Jaskier expects him to fulfil that command because, you know, there’s still six people between them and their exit – but all of a sudden that’s not such a concern anymore, because Jaskier’s expression twists, flickers, and he spits blood onto the stone floor. 

The count laughs, sharp and keen. “Very well, then,” he says, all of a sudden full of disinterest. “If you felt so strongly, little bird, you just had to say.” Menace dances in his eyes. “I’m not really interested in damaged goods, anyway. The ribs, I assume? I made sure to crack a few. Looks like I might have done more than just _crack_ them.” 

“Shit,” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks up at him, lips blood-red and eyes wide. It’s a face Geralt’s seen before—the djinn, the fucking djinn-wish—and now, like then, it sends fear shuddering through his gut. 

“Go, Witcher,” the count says, gesturing for him men to stand down. “And when he’s dead, remember that it was at my hand. Remember that you couldn’t save him.” 

Geralt grits his teeth, sheathes his sword, hefts Jaskier into his arms, and gets them the fuck out. 

The count smiles after him, teeth white and gleaming. 

The borrowed horse is still where Geralt left it, and it nuzzles cautiously against Geralt’s shoulder as he unhitches its reins and hoists Jaskier into the saddle. There’s blood bubbling freely from his lips, now, sputtering and spitting down his chin, his throat, his chest, and Geralt feels fear seize his gut at the sight. He mounts behind Jaskier, takes the reins, turns the horse’s head and spurs them out of there. 

Jaskier’s trembling in his arms, shaking. “Geralt,” he says, short and wet. “What’s happening?” 

“We need to get you to a healer,” Geralt answers. 

“Why?” Jaskier asks. “What’s happening to me? Has that shithead Enri cursed me? Is it like the djinn?”

“No,” Geralt says shortly, taking the horse galloping through the heather. He glances back over his shoulder, watching for scouts, for followers, but there’s no one there. They’re not being tracked, and that makes everything so much fucking worse because that means that the count doesn’t even think it’s worth it. He turns back to Jaskier, kicks his heels into the horse’s flanks. “He broke your ribs, Jaskier,” he says, “and I think one of those broken ribs has pierced your lung.” 

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, bubbling like a spring. 

“If we don’t get you to a healer, you’ll drown in your own blood,” Geralt says. “But I’m not going to let that happen.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, just leans to one side, his head leaning over Geralt’s arm, and spits blood and phlegm into the heather. He leans back against Geralt, and he’s thinner than Geralt remembers, his shoulders narrower, his cheekbones more pronounced. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grits out, into the wind and the darkness. “For leaving you there. And for leaving you in the first place.” 

Jaskier’s hand presses back against Geralt’s chest, warm and solid. “I’d love to see his face,” he says through the blood, “when he realises that Talia’s gone. He’s going to _shit himself_.” 

“Keep quiet,” Geralt says, amusement and worry warring in his chest. “Save your strength.” 

Jaskier stops talking, but his hand stays pressed against Geralt’s chest. 

It’s a few hours solid riding to get to Tomasz’ camp, and Geralt feels Jaskier get limper and limper the more the hours pass. If he’s right about the punctured lung—and he’s pretty sure he is—then the jostling of the ride isn’t helping, but it’s that or just wait until Jaskier bleeds out because this is far beyond his skills to fix, even if he had the potions and herbs that are currently safe and secure in Roach’s saddlebags – because, fuck, this was supposed to be straightforward. The sun is stretching over the horizon when they come crashing into the camp, back to the smell of the aftermath of a battle, blood and shit and sweat, men with bandages wrapped around their heads, cries of pain on their lips – but Geralt can’t bring himself to give much of a fuck about any of it, to be honest, because Jaskier is completely slack against him, head lolling against his shoulder, unconscious, unwakeable. He’s pretty sure he would have fallen off the horse a long time ago if Geralt hadn’t been holding him in place. 

“ _Jaskier!_ ”

Talia comes bolting across the camp to them, Tomasz close on her heels. There’s blood in Tomasz’ golden hair and a long scratch down one cheek, and Talia has a heavy cloak wrapped around her shoulders, protecting her finery from the chill of the morning. “Is he dead?” she raps out, catching the bridle of Geralt’s horse. 

Tomasz darts forward and catches Jaskier as he slides sideways out of the saddle and out of Geralt’s arms. “Shit,” he curses, then Geralt leaps down to join him and they lower Jaskier to the hard ground. Geralt feels for a pulse in Jaskier’s throat, finds it, thready and weak, then looks up at Tomasz, barks, “He needs a healer.” 

“We don’t have one,” Tomasz answers shortly. “At least, not one who can fix this.” He tears open the front of Jaskier’s doublet, revealing a bloodstain that’s not just been spat out of his mouth – and when he pulls his undershirt up, Geralt’s stomach twist because, well, it looks like it’s not just his lung that’s been punctured. White bone gleams through the bruised flesh of Jaskier’s ribcage. “Fuck,” Tomasz swears, and Geralt hears Talia turn away and noisily retch into the soil. 

“My horse,” he says, as calm as he can manage. “Bring her here.” 

Tomasz shouts an order, Talia comes to her knees beside them, but all Geralt can focus on is Jaskier’s face, slack and lax, eyes closed. He almost looks like he could be sleeping – except he’s not, obviously, because one of his ribs is stabbing through the flesh of his chest. “Here,” Tomasz says, and Geralt smells Roach before he sees her. He springs to his feet, wrenches her saddlebags open, finds a tiny vial of electric blue liquid, goes back to Jaskier, tips the potion between his bloody lips. 

“What’s that?” Talia asks, Jaskier’s hand clenched between hers. “Will it save him?”

“No,” Geralt says shortly. “But it will keep him alive a little longer.” 

“He can’t die,” Talia says, her expression stricken. “Not like this. Not for me.” 

“He’s not going to,” Geralt says. He stands again, fastens Roach’s saddlebags again, passes his hand over her nose and takes a breath. “I know someone who can help him. She’s a few hours away, and if I can get her to him in time…” He trails off, because all of a sudden he’s forced himself to confront that possibility that he _won’t_ get Jaskier to Yennefer in time, and that’s just not an option. “She can help,” he says, finally. 

“We’ll go with you,” Tomasz says. 

Geralt shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that,” he says. “You need to get out of the area as quickly as you can, before the count comes looking for you. And I’ll move faster by myself.” 

“ _No_ ,” Talia barks in the tone of nobility who’s not used to being refused, but then her brother lays a hand on her arm, squeezes. “No, Tomasz,” she snaps. “He saved me. I won’t let this be the last time I see him.” 

“Talia, if we delay much longer, he’ll die,” Tomasz says gently. 

“No,” Talia says, tears in her eyes, and she leans forward, presses a terrified kiss to Jaskier’s still lips. When she meets Geralt’s gaze, Jaskier’s blood stains her lips red. “Save him,” she begs again. “ _Save him_.” 

Geralt swings himself up onto Roach’s back, pats her firmly, then Tomasz and one of his men pass Jaskier’s unconscious body up to him. He straps Jaskier to his front with a short length of rope, knotting it tight, keeping him as still and secure as possible, because the healing potion will slow Jaskier’s heartbeat, keep the blood from pumping madly out of his body, but it won’t keep him alive indefinitely. He needs to get to Yennefer, and he needs to get to her _now_. 

“Send word,” Tomasz says, his face white and pinched. “Please, Geralt. Send word when you can.”

Geralt nods, and goes. 

Roach must sense his urgency. She runs faster than the wind, faster than the rivers, and she barely needs him to direct her – it’s like she knows where they need to go. Geralt keeps one arm wrapped tight around Jaskier’s shoulders, pressing him close to his chest, trying to keep as still as possible, and he listens frantically for the pounding of Jaskier’s heart, slow and sluggish as it is. 

This can’t be it. This can’t be how they end. 

He left Yennefer with Ciri in a small house on the outskirts of a nowhere town in the hills, charmed so that, to anyone else, the house looks derelict, abandoned, forgotten. He approaches from the south so that he’s not seen racing through the town with a dying man in his arms—not the most subtle way to go—and crashes through the house’s wardings, Roach’s flanks heaving, her muzzle flecked with foam, her eyes rolling. “ _Yennefer_ ,” he roars, fumbling to untie the rope and dismount, Jaskier held clumsily in his arms – and fuck, shit, he’s _so pale_. 

“Geralt?” The door of the house opens and Yennefer is framed in doorway, surprise and annoyance twisting in her eyes. “Where the fuck have you been?” – but then she sees him, sees Roach, sees Jaskier, and her shoulders straighten, her eyes spark bright. “Inside,” she snaps. “The table.” 

Geralt does as he’s told, laying Jaskier down on the table as carefully as he can. His skin is ice-white and his heartbeat is so faint Geralt can barely hear it. 

Yennefer’s at his side, rolling up her sleeves. “What happened?” she asks, pushing Jaskier’s doublet open and ripping his shirt down the middle. She winces at the sight, then turns, barks, “Ciri! Get my bag!”

“Broken ribs,” Geralt says. “Punctured lung, compound fracture.” 

“And the bruising?” 

Geralt’s been trying not to think about the bruises, around Jaskier’s throat, his wrists, his arms, mapped across his chest, bootprints in his sides, his ribs, dotted with cuts and stars from fine rings, fine hands, fine violence. “He was held captive,” he says. “Beaten, tortured.”

Yennefer nods, at which point Ciri appears in the doorway, Yennefer’s satchel in her hands. “I’ve got your bag,” she says, and then her gaze goes to Jaskier and her eyes go wide. She doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t question, doesn’t push, just hands Yennefer the satchel and retreats to the corner of the room. Geralt should probably tell her to leave, tell her not to look, but she’s the Lion Cub of Cintra. She’s seen worse, and right now he needs the reassurance that she’s safe, too. 

“This won’t be easy,” Yennefer says, rubbing some kind of concoction from her bag onto her hands before settling one palm onto Jaskier’s forehead and holding the other above the gleam of bone protruding jagged from his chest. “I’m already depleted, Geralt, and he’s very weak.”

“Please, Yen,” Geralt says, and he knows she hears the fear in his voice, the plea. “Just try.” 

Yennefer nods, eyes bright, and tries. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve been here, of course, Jaskier bleeding and wounded, Geralt helpless to help, Yennefer bringing him back from the brink. The only difference now is that _everything_ is different. Yennefer is scarred from Sodden, scarred and shattered in some unspeakable, traumatised way, and whatever there once was between her and Geralt, hot and lustful, is faded, gone, now burning only in that destiny and a djinn-wish have tied them together to protect the ash-blonde girl with darkness in her eyes and power in her heart. And then there’s Jaskier, of course, because Geralt can feel the memory of his kiss on his lips and he’ll be damned if the first time is also going to be the last time. 

All of a sudden, Geralt is exhausted. 

He goes to Ciri, standing rigid against the wall, and squeezes her shoulder. “Hey,” he says, as gentle as he knows how to be. “It’s okay. He’s a friend.” 

“I know who he is,” Ciri says, surprisingly calm. “Jaskier, the bard. He played at my grandmother’s court.” She blinks up at Geralt. “He’s famous, Geralt, of course I know who he is.” 

Geralt forgets that Jaskier sort of made himself famous, too. 

Geralt strips off his armour, washes Jaskier’s blood off his face and hands, and goes back to Yennefer’s side. She hasn’t moved, her hand still flush to Jaskier’s forehead, but the palm that was hovering above his chest is flat against his skin, now, the bone gone and the flesh whole again. It’s progress. Geralt knows better than to interrupt, so he pulls up a chair, takes a seat – and, after a moment’s consideration, he takes Jaskier’s hand between his, winds their fingers together. 

Eyes still closed, Yennefer huffs a laugh. “I did wonder,” she says, lips full and red. 

“I can let go, if I’m in the way,” Geralt says quietly. 

Yennefer shakes her head. “Don’t,” she says. “I mean, you are in the way, but he draws comfort from it.” 

Geralt’s heart lurches. “Is he—”

“Alive?” Yennefer interrupts. “Yes, he is. But he’s still weak.” She pauses for a second, eyes moving under her lids, then she says, quieter, “I can see it in his head, Geralt. Everything that happened to him, everything that man did to him. Every beating, every rape.” Geralt breathes, just breathes. “I can make him forget, Geralt.”

“No,” Geralt says sharply, instinctively. 

“It would save him the hurt,” Yennefer says. 

“Would you forget Sodden?” Geralt asks. “No, Yen. We don’t get to make that choice for him.” 

Yennefer doesn’t answer, but Geralt knows that she’s heard him. 

The sun is setting when Yennefer finally opens her eyes and drops her hands. There are dark circles under her eyes that her makeup doesn’t conceal and her arms tremble a little as she steps back, shoulders slumped. “It’s done,” she says. “He’s just sleeping, now.” – and when Geralt looks at Jaskier’s face, there’s a colour in his cheeks that wasn’t there before. He’s still bloody, still stained, and his clothes are ruined and he’s still thinner than he should be, but he’s alive. He’s alive. 

“I’ll deal with him,” Geralt says. “Get some rest, Yen.” 

Yennefer nods to him, doesn’t smile, and slowly goes. Ciri is sitting against the wall, legs crossed, hands in her lap, and Yennefer kneels down, takes her hand, leads her away with a quiet word. 

Geralt lets his head drop to Jaskier’s hand, and closes his eyes. 

After a while, he gets to his feet and fetches a bucket of water, a cloth, and a pile of blankets. He warms the water with a thought and a sign, then carefully strips Jaskier out of his tattered, bloody clothes, strips him naked and cleans him, carefully but thoroughly. When he’s clean and dry, he tucks the blanket around him, then goes outside to see to Roach. He stables her, feeds her, presses his forehead to her long nose and wills her to understand his thanks. He’ll rub her down properly in the morning, but for now he just unloads his saddlebags and takes them inside. He retrieves a pot of salve and folds back the blanket, then stops dead, throat tight, because Jaskier’s alive, he’s safe, but the story of what happened to him is still mapped across his skin, lessened but not healed by the edges of Yennefer’s magic. 

Fingermarks around his neck. Bootprints on his ribs. Handprints on his stomach. Ropemarks on his elbows, his hips, his knees. Bitemarks on his thighs. Nailmarks on his hips. 

Geralt grits his teeth, and sets to work with the salve. 

When he’s done, he wraps Jaskier carefully in the blankets and carries him upstairs. The door to the room that Ciri and Yennefer share is firmly shut, soft light seeping out from under the frame, and Geralt takes Jaskier to his own small room, lays him out on the bed, tucks blankets and furs around him and then realises that he’s… _fussing_. 

“Shit,” Geralt says to no one in particular, and sits heavily in the corner of the room.

Jaskier sleeps heavily, solidly, his breathing susurrating quietly through the room in time with the slow, steady beating off his heart. He smells of himself and of the salve that Geralt rubbed deep into his bruises, of Roach and the open road and, ever so faintly, of blood. He sleeps calmly, dreamlessly, and Geralt watches him every step of the way. 

It’s still dark when Jaskier’s eyelids flutter open, still dark when he opens his mouth and lets out a soft breath. Moonlight and starlight stream through the window, catching glitteringly bright in his eyelashes, his cheekbones. “Okay,” Jaskier says, hoarse but clear-voiced, “I really hope that the whole getting rescued and then nearly dying thing wasn’t all a very cruel dream.” 

“It wasn’t,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier shifts up to his elbows, rubs a hand down his chest and stomach. “I remember this being more painful?” he hazards. 

“Yennefer,” Geralt says. “She healed you.” 

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, nodding to himself. “Of course. Your destined lover, that makes sense. I’m glad she’s decided to hate me less.” 

Geralt shifts, moves from the wall to the bed, sits carefully next to Jaskier and takes his hand. 

Jaskier swallows. “Should I take this to mean that she’s _not_ your destined lover anymore?”

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh and changes the subject. “How do you feel?” he asks. 

“Sore,” Jaskier says. “Bruised. Like I’ve been held captive by a fucked-up abusive maniac for six months.” He lets out a long breath, and his fingers flex around Geralt’s. “Talia?” he asks. “Tomasz?” 

“I had to leave them to get you to Yen,” Geralt answers. “They’re both safe, though. They were going home as fast as they could.” 

Jaskier nods, sighs. “Next time,” he says, “I’m going to think twice before I offer myself up instead of someone else. Even Talia.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Geralt rumbles. “Not as long as you’re with me.” 

“Do you want me to be with you?” Jaskier asks, head cocked. 

“Yes,” Geralt says, pouring as much emphatic emotion into that word as he can manage. 

“Good,” Jaskier says, satisfied. “Because I think I’m probably going to have some issues as a result of this, and I think having a big scary Witcher around to get me out of my own messes will be helpful. You know, psychologically speaking.” 

“You were doing fine with this mess,” Geralt says, “until I turned up and they saw me leaving your room.” 

“Yeah, no,” Jaskier says flatly. “I don’t think I was doing fine at all, to be honest. Not in the slightest.” There’s a glassy look in his eyes, absent and disassociated. “I don’t suppose you’ve been raped before, have you, Geralt? Me neither. It’s not an experience I can recommend.” 

“What can I do?” Geralt asks, his voice sticking in his throat. 

Jaskier looks at him, eyes brightening. “You know now,” he says, quiet and sacred. “How I feel about you.” 

“I do.” Geralt’s mouth is dry. 

“And I’m assuming,” Jaskier says, “from how you kissed me, before, that you maybe have some kind of feelings in the same general area for me?”

“I do,” Geralt agrees. 

“Good,” Jaskier says again. “In which case, you can kiss me now.”

Geralt doesn’t move. “Are you sure?” 

“Very sure,” Jaskier says, steady and firm. He tugs on Geralt’s hand, pulls him closer. “Come here,” he whispers, close enough that his breath is soft against Geralt’s lips, and then there’s no space between them at all and they’re kissing, soft and light, then harder, fiercer, and Jaskier’s hands slide into Geralt’s hair, tight and tense. 

“You nearly died,” Geralt husks against Jaskier’s lips. 

“You saved me,” Jaskier whispers back. “Or, actually, technically I think your ex-girlfriend saved me. But I’ll take it.”

“It’s not just her,” Geralt says, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Things are… different, now. More complicated.” 

“Let me guess,” Jaskier says. “You went to find your Child Surprise, and now you’ve got to figure out how to bring up a royal princess whose kingdom burned to the ground?” 

Geralt blinks. “How do you know that?” he asks. 

Jaskier snorts. “I know you, Geralt,” he says. “You were always going to go back for her, eventually. Even if it took the fall of Cintra to give you a kick up the arse. And I’m assuming that that’s why Yennefer is here? Because the girl has some kind of magic? I mean, after what Pavetta did, I guess that would make sense.” 

Geralt stares at him. “And you’re just figuring this out as you go along?” he asks, bemused. 

Jaskier shrugs. “I tell stories,” he says. “If I was telling this one, that’s the story I’d tell.” His face falls, just for a second. “I’m assuming you didn’t manage to pick up my lute on the way out of Enri’s torture palace?” The expression on Geralt’s face must answer that question, and he sighs, pained. “Shit. I guess I can get another lute.” 

Geralt leans forward, kisses him again. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s not just about the lute, no, it’s sorry for everything, all the hurt, all the pain, all the unfairness. 

Jaskier smiles, slow and gentle. “I know you are,” he says, and kisses him. 

“It will be dangerous, if you stay,” Geralt says. 

“I think I’ve proved pretty conclusively that it’s fucking dangerous for me not to stay,” Jaskier points out. “At least with you, the pain is all emotional rather than, you know, physical. Or sexual.”

Geralt’s nostrils flare. “I wish I’d killed him,” he growls. 

“We can always go back,” Jaskier suggests, light and tripping. “Murder Enri, rescue my lute. Yennefer can come along, and the Princess, too. It can be a fun trip for all the family!”

“You’re joking, but we can definitely do that.” 

Jaskier laughs. “Maybe tomorrow,” he says, then shifts to one side, pats the bed. “Come on,” he says. “Get in. And no funny business, Geralt, I’m a wounded and traumatised man. But—” His gaze flickers, darkens under the joking, the humour. “—I think it’ll help, having you here.” 

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Jaskier says. “Shirt off, into bed. And stop delaying! Otherwise I’ll have to assume that you’re not actually interested and then have some kind of Yennefer-related breakdown.” 

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Geralt says, and does as he’s told, stripping down to his smallclothes and sliding under the blankets. Jaskier presses up against him in the moonlit darkness, his hands mapping the scars and planes of Geralt’s body, and Geralt does the same in return, pressing his lips to the pulse point under Jaskier’s ear, sliding his hands gently over bruises and ropeburns and nailmarks. Jaskier shudders occasionally but doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t tell him no, and when he tucks his face against Geralt’s neck, Geralt smells the salt-wet smell of his tears against his skin. “Jaskier,” he says, quiet in the night, and means so much more than he can find the words to say. 

“I know,” Jaskier says in response. “I know.” 

In the morning, Geralt will sit down with Yennefer and Ciri and Jaskier, and they’ll talk in straightforward, rational words about what to do next, about Kaer Morhen, about the risks and the dangers and the fact that Geralt isn’t willing to let any of them out of his sight for longer than they have to be. In the morning, Yennefer will check Jaskier over with cool, professional hands, and Ciri will tell him her story in that detached tone of voice that she gets whenever she’s trying not to remember the past that she can’t forget. In the morning, Geralt will think again about going back for Enri and for Jaskier’s lute, and it will be physically painful for him to put the idea to one side. In the morning, life will go on and the bruises will fade. 

But for now, Geralt and Jaskier share a bed, skin to skin, lips to lips – and when the fear comes shuddering through Jaskier’s hands, his shoulders, his mind, when the tears don’t stop coming, when all the terror and the pain that he’s been hiding under humour and lightheartedness and false confidence comes crashing over him in a tsunami of horror and gut-wrenching trauma, Geralt holds him, and doesn’t let him drown. 

“I won’t break, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, tears still fresh on his cheeks. “Whatever happens, you won’t break me.” 

Geralt kisses him, and doesn’t answer.


End file.
